


Angelic Illness

by aewrose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fainting, Fever, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pneumonia, Recovery, Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aewrose/pseuds/aewrose
Summary: Aziraphale has worryingly keeled over in the bookshop, and is inexplicably ill for some reason. Crowley is worried--and isn't the best healer--so it's time to find out if human methods of healing will work on heavenly corporations.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley looked on as his best friend of six millennia lay alone in a large bed. He shifted in the armchair next to the bed, serpentine legs desperately trying to find comfort. Aziraphale’s brow—normally so gentle, friendly, and soft—was knitted in a pained grimace, and moist with sweat. He inhaled a shuddering breath, exhale quickly becoming a wet, productive cough; then, a coughing fit. The demon quickly rose from his seat at the sight of the angel rising from the nest of pillows, face in the crook of his elbow, struggling to breathe.

“Ngk— Come on, let’s get you sitting up a little.” Aziraphale nodded, still choking on air. Crowley supported him with one hand on his shoulder, the other hand fluffing up pillows so he could rest more upright. The coughs finally stilled, and the angel leaned back, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing.

“Don’t be, angel,” said Crowley, frowning. “I’m sure you would get rid of this, if you could. And it’s no hardship for me. Not like there’s much else to do.”

“I suppose you’re right,” whispered Aziraphale. After the Armageddon’t (as Crowley had named it), life had fundamentally changed for them. They both had the same desire to do good or evil, respectively, but no one to answer to whether it was done or not—so they were more like freelancers at this point.

A soft, cautious knock came at the door.

“Everything okay?” a head of curly brown hair poked in. “I heard you coughing, Z,”

“I’m really _quite_ alright, Dawn, and we really _should_ get out of your hair, don’t you think Crowley—“ he said, breaking out into another coughing fit. Crowley’s jaw set with concern as he rubbed his friend’s back.

“Nonsense,” said the gamine, walking over to the bed. “It’s my pleasure to be able to host you. Not counting the fact that if you were human I’d have you admitted. Although, I’m not sure if I should count you as ‘over sixty-five’ or not.” She smiled and sat down on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, smiling.

“And _don’t_ lie. It’s not becoming of angels.”

His smile fell. “Well, um, not—not very well, to be honest.”

“Let’s take your temperature again, huh? What was it last time, Crowley?”

“38.5,” said Crowley, a little too quickly. He was worried.

Dawn froze for a moment while retrieving the thermometer from the cupboard. She laughed to herself. “I was really confused for a minute, then I remembered we’re measuring in Celsius like sensible people. Now open up, tenderheart.” The thermometer let out a small beep as she placed it under Aziraphale’s tongue. Her gaze lingered on the angel for a moment, before brushing white-blonde curls off his forehead. She turned to face the lithe demon.

“Get any sleep last night?”

“Don’t need to,” said Crowley.

“I _know,_ but did you _want_ to?” Dawn asked, accusingly. Crowley only responded with a “Ngk,” and looked away. She was perceptive—an advanced nurse practitioner and American expat whose husband was one of the few stationed at the Tadfield Air Base. She had what she called “the spiritual gift of discernment”—upon first walking into the bookshop on a rainy day, she had immediately “discerned” Aziraphale’s angelic nature, and by “discerned” Crowley meant “she could see the wings for some reason.” Aziraphale had made quick friends with her, although, to be fair, he made quick friends with just about everyone who liked old bookshops.

The thermometer let out a second digital beep, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Hm,” said Dawn.

“What, what is it?” said Crowley.

“39.7,” Dawn frowned. “I think this is bacterial,” she stated to no one in particular. “Have you ever taken medication, Z? Like, would there be any point in me giving it to you?”

“I’ve never tried. Never needed to,” said Aziraphale, crestfallen. “But, I suppose it’s worth a shot.”

Dawn ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, a half smile on her face. The door closed softly behind her.

Aziraphale sighed. “I really do feel _awful,_ Crowley.”

He looked awful, too. His face was sticky with fever-borne sweat, the usual pink flush to his cheeks was multiplied, the rest of his skin looking so pale it was almost grey, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that normally only appeared when he smiled were emphasized. His sparkling blue eyes were weary and dulled.

“Well, Dawn said you probably had been sick for a few days by the time she noticed. I mean, have you ever been sick before, angel? Or did the bacteria or whatever make you stupid?”

“I don’t _think_ so,” said Aziraphale, grimacing and rubbing his chest. “I think I would _remember_ feeling this bad,”

“What you’d _think_ is that you would have, I don’t know, mentioned something to your lifelong best friend before keeling over in a pile of dussssty old books,” Crowley’s agitation came through in a snakelike hiss. They always came out when he got upset.

“It came on _fast,_ Crowley! You _know_ I would have said something if I—“ Aziraphale leaned forward into another coughing fit. The wet coughs sounded like they came from the very pit of his lungs, and were so strong they shook his whole body. Crowley reached over and began to rub the angel’s back again, drawing slow circles onto the tartan pajamas he had conjured up in a quick miracle on the way to Dawn’s cottage in Tadfield, the Bentley screaming down the country roads like a—well, like a bat out of hell.

Dawn had called from Aziraphale’s phone, upon finding him unconscious in the bookshop. She had dropped in with a box of homemade macarons—telling Crowley later that she had intended to use Aziraphale as a guinea pig for new recipes, but he loved sweets too much and would never say which one he liked the best—only to find him lying curled up on the floor, shivering, sweating through his shirt and burning up in fever. Upon waking, he had started to cry (a sight Crowley had only seen a few times, and was not interested in seeing again) and Dawn had been concerned enough to call out of the rest of her day at work and take him to her home. Thankfully, in the past day he had grown much more coherent, but his symptoms had gotten worse. The wet coughing, the chest pain, the sound Dawn described as a “crackling on inspiration” when Crowley arrived and she was still in “work mode.” (Crowley thought he was going deaf when she thankfully explained that she could only hear it through the stethoscope still hanging around her neck.) Dawn had decided it was pneumonia, but none of the three were sure quite how Aziraphale _got_ it in the first place. I mean, they were heavenly beings after all. Aziraphale had said that he felt too weak to miracle it away, so it was up to Dawn and Crowley to nurse him back to health.

The cautious knock came at the door again, and Crowley was knocked out of his inner monologue to find Aziraphale now still except the rise and fall of his chest. He normally chose not to sleep, unlike Crowley who was quite a fan of closing his eyes and hallucinating wildly for eight hours each day. This illness was taking so much out of him that it was all he could do to stay awake for short bursts of time.

Dawn entered, Crowley holding a finger to his lips in a “be quiet, the baby is sleeping” motion. She smiled. “I went ahead and called in some antibiotics, but they won’t be ready until later today,” she whispered. “Would you like anything for breakfast?”

The demon cocked his head, thinking. It was early, about half past six, and the first light was beginning to peek through the curtain. “Cup of coffee might be nice,”

“Cup of coffee it is, then. Oh, and I brought these,” she set out a bowl of cool water and rags, alongside a cup for drinking water. “That fever’s worrying me, I don’t want to let it get back up to where it was yesterday if I can avoid it. Think you can persuade him to take these when he wakes up next?” she handed Crowley a few pills. “Just aceta-uh, _paracetamol_ , I promise. Nothing sketchy.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Crowley. “Maybe they would go down a little better if they came alongside some sweets?”

“Oooh, good idea,” Dawn remarked. “I normally wouldn’t encourage macaroons for breakfast, but can I really deny a poor little angel his favorite?”

“Exactly,” agreed Crowley. “Now you know how I’ve felt for the last six thousand years.”

A laugh bubbled up from Dawn as she left the room. The bittersweet aroma of coffee snaked through the house.

—

Aziraphale didn’t wake up until it was nearly lunchtime. He had been stirring in his sleep, and started breathing faster and heavier. Crowley almost woke him up, but decided against it when Dawn didn’t seem exceptionally concerned. When he actually woke, however, was a totally different story.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yep, I’m here,” he said, calmly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, heavens, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, eyes glassy. “The books,”

“What books? The bookshop’s fine, remember angel?”

“Crowley, the books, I forgot,” the sick angel suddenly appeared frail to Crowley. He grasped at Crowley’s shirt in agitation. His hands were burning like holy water in Hell’s mop bucket.

“Angel, you’ve got to calm down, I can get you whatever book you want,” said Crowley, confused.

“No, no, _Crowley, my books—_ “ said Aziraphale, breathing heavily, nearly choking. “The books are going to get blown up,” he grimaced in pain, with a sorrowful groan. “ _Crowley,”_

Crowley called out for Dawn. He tried shushing the angel. “That was a long time ago, Aziraphale. Your books are safe now, I saved them, remember?”

“No, no, _Crowley, help—“_ he broke out in another fit of coughing, gasping for air. Dawn rushed in.

“What’s going on?” She crouched at the angel’s bedside, opposite the worried demon. Aziraphale jumped and turned to look at her, searching her face.

“I’m scared, I don’t know what’s happening,” he said, wheezing. “Have you seen my friend?”

“Sweetheart, we’re right here with you,” she stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, honey, you’re burning up,”

“Aziraphale, look at me,” said Crowley, sternly.

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” said the angel, leaning into Dawn’s hand, cool on his feverish skin. “ _Please,_ would you take me home? But, I forgot my _books,_ ” he said, relieved at first to see his longtime friend then distraught again at the thought of the unspecified books being damaged. Hot tears began to fall from the blue eyes as he let out a sob.

Crowley and Dawn looked at each other, yellow snake eyes meeting deep brown. Dawn’s hands moved to the angel’s back as he shook with sobs.

“Angel, I promise to go find your books, but for now you have to take thesssse,” There was the hiss again. He handed Aziraphale the medication and the water glass, thin bony hands supporting soft pink ones. His hands were shaking worse than Crowley’s houseplants after a bad day. The angel cooperated but did not stop weeping.

“Which books did you lose, my dear? I can go look for you,” said Dawn, now rubbing small circles on the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

He sniffed and seemed to calm for a moment, before wailing “I don’t remember,” and going back into hysterics.

Crowley looked at Dawn again, exasperated, and Dawn shot back a look that so clearly communicated “I’m _trying,”_ that he decided not to speak.

“Here, how about a snack to regain your strength so we can go look later,” said Dawn, softly. She turned and retrieved a plate with two macaroons on it from the nightstand.

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale, tears still falling inexplicably but demeanor significantly changed. “Yes, that sounds good.” His hands still shook as he took the plate, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He quietly started eating the sweets as Crowley and Dawn both took a simultaneous sigh of relief.

After the snack, Aziraphale thankfully fell back to a fitful sleep.

“Well then,” sighed Dawn, brushing crumbs off the reddened cheeks. “That was exciting.”

“You’re telling me,” said Crowley. “Exciting” was not exactly the word he would use. Maybe “upsetting,” “very concerning” or “horrifying” would be better words.

“I guess I didn’t realize quite how attached he was to his books,” said Dawn, chuckling. She wiped his face with a cool, wet rag. “Whatever they were, they were pretty important,”

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley waved his hand. “I had to rescue the books a few times. The Blitz, the fire in the bookshop… The whole Library of Alexandria thing was really rough. Had to do a lot of damage control on that one.”

“Oh, goodness, I can imagine.”

A beat of silence followed as they both looked down at the sleeping angel. Even sick, a sleeping Aziraphale was practically the definition of “angelic,” between the white-golden curls, upturned nose, and softly parted lips.

“The medicine should bring down his fever,” said Dawn, standing from her place by the bed. “Which I’m pretty sure was the cause of… all that. Shouldn’t happen again, theoretically, but steel yourself just in case.”

“Gotcha,” said the thin, tall redhead.

“I have a random question,” she said, coming around to Crowley’s side of the bed.

“Shoot.”

“Do they have… mothers? In heaven, I mean?”

“Ngk, not really,” said Crowley, shrugging. “You kinda just… start to be.”

“Hmm.” Dawn looked lost in thought.

“Well, consider yourselves ‘mothered’ then,” she said, grinning at the demon. “Everybody needs a mama, especially in tough times.”

She patted him on the shoulder before leaving the room.

—

Crowley closed the door softly behind him.

“Ah, the mighty venomous cobra emerges from his den…” said Dawn, from the couch. “Hmm, do snakes make dens?” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Heaven if I know. I thought you were working today?”

“Normally I do, but since I have a patient—“ she gestured to the bedroom door— “I figured I’d work from home. Just notes and charts anyway.” Crowley went to look over her shoulder.

“Uh, uh, uh,” said the brunette, closing the laptop and wagging her finger. “Privacy,”

“C’mon, privacy’s no fun for me,” said Crowley, flopping onto the couch.

“For _you,_ yes,” Dawn remarked, re-opening the laptop. “Until I lose my job for privacy violations and won’t leave you guys alone.” She smirked.

“You must be feeling a little less worried, if you’re out here.” Her gaze flicked over the top of her small glasses to the demon’s yellow eyes.

“Not really,” he said, sighing. “Just figured I can only watch him breathe for so long.”

Dawn hummed softly. “Compassion fatigue,” she said. “You reach a point where you have to take care of yourself or you can’t take care of others. Maybe you should go for a walk, or a drive, or something.”

Crowley thought for a moment. “Oh, or better yet, a coffee run.” He looked up at her to see an “innocent” smile.

“Ngk, fine,” he rose from the couch. He tried in vain to hide his grin from her. She and Aziraphale both were masters of the “Oh, I’m so innocent, I would _never_ use my ineffably good looks to get things that I want” shtick.

“Better get some more cookies, too, if we’re going to keep our sickie calm,” said Dawn, her focus back on the laptop screen.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’ll be right back,” he sauntered over to the door. “But if _anything_ spills in the Bentley it’s going to be on your head,” he looked back with a half smile, donning his signature round shades.

“Oh, I’d _die_ before I let anything happen to the _Bentley,”_ assured Dawn, voice dripping with sarcasm.

The front door shut with a click.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale woke to the sound of a few distinguishable clicks.

First, the tick-tock sound of the small clock Dawn had left on the nightstand. A quarter to three—and judging by the light coming in through the gauzy curtain it was afternoon, not middle of the night.

Then the pulsing clicks of Dawn’s fingers on the laptop keyboard. A burst of loud, frenzied taps, a “hmm,” a click of the tongue, a single tap, a beat of silence, then another burst of taps, longer this time.

Crowley was nowhere to be seen. His glasses were gone, so Aziraphale assumed he had left. His head felt oddly fuzzy—like his thoughts were slogging through a swamp—and his mouth was dry. Under the clicks, a high-pitched whine stabbed at his ears. His chest began to ache and he noticed the sensation of his hair sticking to his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, in an effort to clear the “fuzz” and the growing headache, and took a deep breath—or tried, anyway.

The breath came with a blinding, stabbing pain in his chest, and he heard a choked cry. He started to panic—a home intruder in Dawn’s house? When her husband wasn’t home? What if something had happened to Crowley? He started to rise from the bed, first propped up on forearms, then carefully swinging his feet off the bed, steeling himself for a fight. He stood cautiously, bare feet touching cold wood floor, and his head began to swim.

He reached for the wall to steady himself, leaning up on it for just a minute, vision darkening at the edges, ears ringing so loudly now he couldn’t hear the clicks anymore, voice in his head _screaming_ both “sit down, sit, sleep” and “but what if someone is in danger?” when he felt a soft, gentle touch at his shoulder.

It wasn’t until then that he realized the cry from earlier was not Dawn, or Crowley, or anyone else, but _himself;_ and in fact, one of the voices he thought were in his head was Dawn gently trying to guide him back to the bed. He made his best attempt to cooperate but felt like his feet were not connected to the rest of him, and the noise in his head graduated from ringing to a sound like rushing water. Black spots appeared in his field of view as he sat down on the bed, Dawn’s words of comfort slipping, scrambled, through his mind like smoke through an open hand. His hands raised to rub his eyes, shaking, cold, sweating, fingers tingling like an electric shock. He was thwarted by Dawn’s grip, one hand firmly holding his arm, pressing _hard_ on the inner part of his wrist. She turned her head toward the clock on the nightstand, her brown curls seeming to move in slow motion. Her other hand moved to his chin, then to his forehead, pulling up on his eyelid. Suddenly both hands moved to his shoulders, and he picked out his name, his _full_ name—Dawn said his _full_ name so seldom—and his diminishing vision caught a look of concern on her face before he slipped into darkness.

—

Dawn sighed.

“Dammit, Z.” She laid his limp body down on the bed, sitting down next to him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, still breathing albeit ragged, pulse slow but present. “Just a faint,” she said (to herself, or to her unconscious patient). “Orthostatic syncope. Very normal.” she took a deep breath. “Ugh, Crowley’s gonna be _pissed,”_ she groaned.

A car door clicked shut outside. Then the click of the front door opening.

“That you, Crowley?” she yelled from the bedroom.

“No, it’s the Queen,” said the voice mockingly. Dawn rolled her eyes almost reflexively. “I’m in the bedroom,”

Crowley walked in holding a paper coffee cup. “Everything alright?”

“Mm,” Dawn hummed. “Your _angel_ just gave me the scare of my life.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sitting on the couch, minding my own business, typing SOAP notes like my life depends on it, and I hear this little noise so I come in here to check on him and he’s just standing there white as a sheet,”

“Standing?”

“Yeah, he’s standing up like it’s no big deal, except I’m talking to him and he’s not saying anything, just standing there; and he’s panting like crazy, poor thing. I think he just fainted from standing up too fast, but I’m not entirely sure why he got up in the first place.”

The two silently looked at each other, then at the still near-motionless angel.

“That’s what I get for leaving, I guess,” said Crowley, resigned.

“Oh, no, no. Don’t say stuff like that,” Dawn interrupted. “Sometimes this stuff just happens. He should wake up before too long.”

Aziraphale stirred with a small moan.

“See? Told ya,” said Dawn with a smirk.

—

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open, despite the pounding in his head. His hands still shaking and tingling, his ears still ringing, but his eyes open. First a red blur above him, then a face, then Crowley, his black sunglasses pushed up on his head revealing his yellow eyes. Slit pupils darting around, taking in the frail state of his angel.

“Cr’wley, why’re you… spinning?” he said, slurring. He shut his eyes again, tightly, but the spinning sensation did not fade. A wave of nausea came, cresting, then receding. He took a shaky breath. Crowley and Dawn were speaking but they sounded like they were miles away. Two strong, familiar arms pushed under his, propping him up. His face met cool, dry skin; the comforting scent of cologne and clean satin met his senses. He buried his face in the neck, cool skin soothing his, still overheating with effects of the sickness. The two arms began to let go of him, leaning him into the bed.

“No,” it came out as more of a whine than he had intended, but the point still stood. His shaking hands took handfuls of the satin shirt, desperate for the touch of another body.

“Angel, lay down,” Crowley’s voice, soft in his ear, uncharacteristically gentle.

“No,” he shook his head. Big mistake. A groan escaped, even through lips now firmly shut, another wave of nausea building, cresting. A muscle spasm, a choked cough becoming a painful retch. Crowley was swearing in his ear and pulling away. Another voice just saying “Oh,” and a new set of hands wiping his mouth and chin. He dared to open his eyes again. Dawn’s brown eyes only inches from his face, Crowley still complaining, snapping his fingers, shirt now dry. Dawn’s words suddenly became clearer.

“Are you all done? Any more, tenderheart?”

He dared to shake his head again. The spinning sensation had ceased.

“That’s what happens when you overdo it, Z,” said Dawn, hand rubbing his upper arm, playfully now that most concern was gone. “Just keep breathing, it’ll pass.”

“M’sorry,” said the angel, between shallow breaths. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Nothing a little demonic miracle can’t fix, angel.” Crowley was fixing his hair.

“Fix _me,_ ” Aziraphale pleaded.

“Would if I could,” said the demon, rolling up his sleeves. “Making people healthy is kind of _your_ specialty, isn’t it? Not much of a healer, me.” Dawn gave him a look so strong it could have cut through him.

“…Suppose I could _try,_ ” the angel’s voice cracked with the effort just to speak.

“Uh, no no no, nuh-uh, no way,” Dawn interjected, suddenly. “ _Standing up_ was enough of a struggle. No miracle-ing allowed. Just… rest for a minute, would you?”

He sighed, chest still thick with sickness. “H-how do you _handle_ this? It’s just _horrible,_ ”

“I believe it,” said Dawn. “But that’s humanity for ya. You kind of just stick it out, when you have no other option.” She suddenly reached out and pinched the skin of his hand.

“ _Ow!_ ” He weakly pulled his hand away. “What was _that_ for?”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “The nurse in me _had_ to check. You’re pretty dehydrated. Think you could keep down some soup?”

“I don’t even want to _think_ about food right now,” he groaned, covering his eyes.

Dawn slowly turned to Crowley, his mouth agape. “Oh _hell,_ this is _serious,_ ”

The brunette sighed. “Can we talk for a minute? Be right back, Z,” she slid off the bed and walked out, the bedroom door closing behind her with a _click._

—

“Come on, sit,” said Dawn, gesturing Crowley over to the couch. “Look,” she sighed, exasperated. “I’m sorry to go into ‘doctor mode’ on you here, but I really _should_ admit him.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Crowley was lost in thought. “I don’t- we _can’t,_ ”

“I know.” The two sat there for a moment in silence; seemingly bonded over the state of affairs in the cottage. Each of them had some disruption to their home—Dawn’s home swiftly becoming somewhere between a medical office and a bed-and-breakfast, Crowley’s “home” having borderline discorporated twice in the past few hours.

“Would you do me a favor?” said Dawn, suddenly. “Maybe you could…miraculously acquire… some things I need for Z? We could call it… ‘creating an artificial shortage of medical supplies?’”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Well? Would you like a list?”

“What I’d _like_ is the magic word,”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Would you _please,_ _kindly, with a cherry on top,_ _perfectly legally acquire_ me a short list of medical supplies?”

Crowley shot her a half smile. “As you wish.”

—

“So, see this part here? What does it look like?”

“Like a little straw,” said Aziraphale, desperately trying to stave off a panic attack.

“That’s right,” Dawn remarked calmly. “So nothing sharp stays in your body, just this little plastic piece. Here, touch it. See? It’s not sharp at all,”

Aziraphale swallowed nervously. He had not paid much attention to human medical practices before. He was sure he would never need to know.

“Alright, let’s get started then, shall we?” Dawn had donned a pair of clean gloves, and her curls were pulled back. (She would never tell, but she had explained the intravenous hydration process like she did to pediatric patients.)

“I’m not going to look,” said Aziraphale, voice shaking. His fever had not broken, yet, but had abated enough for his brain to clear (just in time to be _stabbed,_ with a _needle,_ he thought.) Crowley was seated on the opposite side of the bed. As Dawn tied off his arm with the tourniquet, Aziraphale reflexively reached for Crowley’s hand, then stopped himself.

Crowley reached out, thin bony fingers intertwining with the angel’s. A single squeeze, a wordless “I’m here.”

“Just a little scratch, now, Z. Keep breathing, you’re doing fine.”

The angel gasped. Dawn’s cool hands gripped his arm gently, having gone through the same procedure many times before.

“Almost done, _breathe,_ ” she said, firmly. “You’re holding your breath.”

Aziraphale exhaled, shuddering. “Sorry,”

“Perfect, perfect, perfect. All done.” Dawn pulled the needle from the arm, gently placing a sticky bandage on the site.

“Oh, that wasn’t so bad,”

“See, I told you! Now, _no picking._ Or else I’ll never make you macarons again.” She tapped him on the nose with a still gloved hand, smiling. Her smile quickly fell. “Oh, _shit,_ Crowley? You okay?”

“Fine, just fine,” the angel watched all the color drain from the demon’s face. “Tickety-boo,” his grip on Aziraphale’s hand loosened.

“Oh, _heavens,_ Crowley—Dawn, would you—“ Dawn was already on the opposite side of the bed, catching Crowley from hitting his head on the nightstand. She gently lowered his head to the bedspread, and Aziraphale’s free hand rushed to the demon’s cheek.

“Crowley, wake up, um, please,” Aziraphale’s voice came out trembling, fearful.

“It’s alright,” said Dawn, quietly. She smiled tenderly at the angel. “He’ll be awake in just a second. Plus, now you know how _we_ felt over the past few hours.”

Crowley sighed, taking in a deep breath, body relaxing. Aziraphale’s thumb stroked his sharp cheekbone. The angel started coughing, suddenly.

“You know, I almost forgot about the cough,” commented Dawn. “You two are masters of distraction.”

Yellow eyes snapped open at the sound. “Y’re okay, angel, just breathe,” he slurred.

“Oh—you’re fine now—are you?” the white blonde curls shook with each cough. “We’re not going to—mention—what just happened?”

“What? Nothing happened,” claimed Crowley. “Just… took a little, uh, a little nap, that’s all.”

Dawn scoffed. “Am I the only responsible adult in this house? For goodness’ sake,” she leaned down to Crowley. “Afraid of needles, are we?”

Crowley frowned, crossing his arms in silence. A giggle bubbled up from Aziraphale, which quickly became another cough.

“Can I leave the room now? Is it safe? No one needs a knight in shining armor?” Dawn laughed, laying down on the bed at the angel’s feet. The three of them took a collective sigh of relief. For the first time in a few days, it seemed like things would be okay.


	3. Epilogue

“Are you _sure_? You don’t need _anything_ else?”

“Really, Dawn, you’ve done so much already—“

Dawn gasped, freshly washed brunette curls bouncing at the sudden motion. “I forgot the _Gatorade!_ Can’t send the sweet boys home without their _hydration,_ Dawn, _really,_ what were you _thinking,_ ” she walked back into the kitchen, muttering to herself.

“Sorry,” Dawn’s husband Jack, still in pajamas, sheepishly ran his hands over his cropped hair. “Do you…want some help loading that into the car?”

Crowley’s arms were burdened with several hand-crocheted blankets, a basket with basic first aid items, and a box full of all the homemade sweets you could ask for (or at least, all of the homemade sweets Dawn managed to make in two days, in between IV changes and soup dinners). Aziraphale was standing timidly next to him, dressed in his usual outfit, crisply pressed, and smelling of fresh detergent. He was holding absolutely nothing, at Dawn’s behest, and was worrying at the ring he wore on his finger.

“No, no, we’ll be fine, really. Thank you for welcoming us into your home,” said Aziraphale.

“No, thank _you,_ ” said Jack. “We don’t want to see you unwell, of course, but Dawn’s really loved having somebody else here. She’s got that whole maternal instinct thing goin’ on, I guess.”

Dawn ran back into the entryway, haphazardly carrying as many bottles as her small frame could handle. “You need a bigger _basket,_ ” she whined, exasperated. “Hold on,” she said, trying to set down her precious cargo in a way that would not result in it all being dumped on the floor. The three men shared a knowing glance.

"Honey, they have enough stuff.” Jack gently placed his hand on Dawn’s shoulder. She looked up, eyes darting to his, then to soft blue, then to shaded yellow. The four shared a beat of silence.

“Please, Dawn, let me carry—“

“ _No,_ ” she replied, interrupting the angel. “No way. No heavy lifting,”

“But—“

“ _Doctor’s orders,”_ Dawn said emphatically. “Alright, let’s get you guys locked and loaded so you can go home.” She unceremoniously dumped the drinks in her husband’s arms, rushing to the door to open it.

Crowley and Jack loaded the “goodies” in the back of the Bentley, swiftly getting into a rousing conversation about the vintage car that neither Aziraphale nor Dawn could understand. Dawn laid a hand on the angel’s back, smiling up at him (despite her commandeering personality, she was at least six inches shorter than the angel).

“Our boys, huh?”

“Hm? Oh, yes—I suppose so,” said the angel, preoccupied.

“You alright?” Dawn’s eyebrows raised, questioning.

“Mm,” Aziraphale hummed in response.

“Hey,” she gave his back a gentle pat. “Promise me you’ll call if you start feeling bad again? Now that we know you guys _can_ get sick?”

The angel looked down at her, her brown eyes betraying her concern.

“I promise,”

“— _and_ , promise you’ll force Crowley to do the same,”

“Now _that_ I can’t promise, but I’ll try my best,” the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Good boy.” Dawn flashed him a toothy grin. Her arm came around his side, pulling him into a gentle hug. “I don’t want to squeeze you too hard and start you coughing again,” she said, voice muffled by his many layers of clothing.

He laughed.

“You’re acting like you’ll never see each other again, ngk,” said Crowley, annoyed. “Can we get a move on already?”

“Uh, we were waiting on _you_ ,” spat Dawn, still embracing the angel. Crowley looked at Jack incredulously.

“Dude, no sympathy. I have to _live_ with her,” he chuckled.

“ _Hey!_ ” Dawn let go of Aziraphale, crossing her arms, pouting. “Meanie!”

“Hmm, who do they remind you of?” Crowley asked Aziraphale, opening the passenger door of the car.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I do _not_ sound like that,”

Dawn halted her verbal assault on her husband to interject. “Yeah, you do.”

The demon began to cackle. “See? See?!”

The angel huffed and pouted in response. “You’re doing it right now,” said Jack, turning to head back into the house.

“Sorry to gang up on you, Z, but we’re not that different,” Dawn giggled. “Come here, Mr. Cobra, bring it in,” she pulled Crowley in for a hug (albeit one-sided, it was still a hug). “Please be careful.” She looked up at him, suddenly serious.

“I’ve been saving his sorry angelic arse for six thousand years, I think I can manage,” he hissed.

She smirked. “True.” The demon got into the car, elbow hanging from the open window. The Bentley roared to life as it pulled out of the gravel driveway.

“I’ll come check on you tomorrow or the next day, Aziraphale,” Dawn yelled through open hands. “ _I’ll bring macarons!”_

Aziraphale waved. “Very well, dear!”

“ _Drive safe, Crowley!”_ The girl’s voice, still yelling, faded with distance.

Crowley scoffed. “I always drive safe,” he said. The angel in the passenger seat shot him a look that could slice through steel.

—

After much cajoling, Aziraphale convinced Crowley to take the long way home.

_“I hate country roads! They’re all… curvy,” said the demon._

_“All the better,” said the angel, pointedly. “Harder to speed. Really, you’d think you would have a little more sympathy for your poor partner, having barely come back from discorporation’s doorstep and all.”_

_“Ngk.” A silent moment, with just the noise of the road between them, the Bentley seeming to know they needed it and refraining from blasting Queen._

_“Plus, I like the scenery,” Aziraphale remarked. “It’s peaceful, out here in the country.”_

_Crowley tilted his head, thinking._

_“We could live out here, if you want,”_

_“Really?”_

_“It’s better than choosing my flat or your bookshop. Meet in the middle, or something.”_

The two had been silent for forty-five consecutive minutes after that.

They joined back up to the motorway, alongside all the people running what Crowley called the “rat race,” hustling and bustling back and forth to their places of work, homes, and errands. Of course, traffic was always awful, so the demon was forced to slow his vehicle to a stop.

Crowley set his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, as the angel looked wistfully out the window.

“Yes?” Blue eyes turned towards him, searching black sunglasses for a hint of emotion.

“I was worried,” he said, the Bentley inching forward.

“About what?”

“About _you,_ angel,”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blushed, averting his eyes. “Well _you_ fainted on _me_ , I was worried _sick!_ ”

Crowley chuckled, a rare sound. “For what, fifteen seconds? You don’t get it, angel.” He sighed. “Just… promise you’ll say something? Next time you don’t feel well? I don’t want to see you on the brink of discorporation again. Not with things how they are.”

The Bentley roared as the traffic started moving again, almost as if it was in agreement.

“Oh, alright,” the angel relented. “I promise. There, happy?”

Crowley smiled lovingly, briefly meeting eyes with the angel through tinted glass. “More than you know.”

—

The two pulled up next to the bookshop on the corner. There were few other people walking around—being in the middle of a workday, most of the crowds had dissipated. Crowley wordlessly opened the door for Aziraphale before gathering the supplies Dawn had bestowed upon the two of them. Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief as he entered the bookshop, followed by a small cough. Crowley raised an eyebrow, setting down the armful of domesticity incarnate as the door latched shut behind him.

“You alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” said the angel. “Dawn said the cough would linger for a while, so don’t panic and faint on me again.”

Crowley crossed his arms defiantly. “How is it that _you’re_ the one who was so _deathly ill,_ yet _I’m_ the one who fainted and will apparently _never_ live it down? C’mon,” he sidled up behind the angel, chin resting on his shoulder, arms now crossed behind his back. “Besides, I’m not the one who _puked_ _all over the place,_ ”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whined.

“I mean, you should have _seen_ it,” said the demon, walking away, picking a book off a shelf indiscriminately and waving it around as he spoke. “It was _everywhere,_ ”

“It most certainly was _not,_ ”

“Was too.”

“Was _not!_ I remember. I was _there,_ ”

Crowley began cackling again. “You’re too easy to get a rise out of, angel.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I meant it, what I said earlier.” He carefully placed the book back on the shelf, exactly where it came from. “About moving to the country. Together.”

He came up beside the angel again, putting an arm around his shoulders. “What do you think? A little cottage, all to ourselves. With a garden, and a nice garage for the Bentley,” he gestured widely with his arm. “And enough kitchen space for all the sweets you can dream of.”

Aziraphale leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder, white blonde curls brushing black leather. “And a library?”

“Sure,” Crowley squeezed the angel closer. “We could even get one of those… slidey… ladder things, if you promise not to hurt yourself falling off.”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said dreamily. He pulled the demon into a hug, nestling his face in the demon’s neck, inhaling the scent of the love they shared. Crowley closed his eyes, placing a gentle kiss into the fluffy hair.


End file.
